


Hitchhiking

by PurpleMoon3



Series: Not Dead Yet [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Clan Denial, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 16:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19995136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: Falling from the Bifrost, Loki is a drowning man. Luckily, he finds a life preserver in the form another who has recently been betrayed.





	Hitchhiking

It's a funny thing, this life. Or death. Loki isn't sure.

He comes to awareness -he doesn't say awake because he still isn't sure he's not dead- to a midgardian uttering something that might be a curse, but he's fairly certain the words God, dead, and sword are in there. Midgard has so many languages, and they change so much it is at times hard to keep up if one doesn't take care to visit every-other decade or so. So few of his fellow -but apparently not- aesir do.

Loki's body is equal parts cold, though not the cool disquieting comfort of his jotun form, and burning with ache. He's dimly aware of the fact that he's lying in the middle of a small crater, because while the bifrost may deposit one with a jolt it does not piteously slam the traveler into the destination realm. Loki had not traveled by bifrost, and free falling through time and space has no safety features.

The God of Mischief is fairly certain every last bone in his body has been reduced to powder, and with that realization he comes to the conclusion that he isn't dead. Death would be far kinder, and with less pain. He takes a breath, inflating lungs that had been crushed flat, and his eyes water. When he attempts to blink them clear -and by the cursed (blessed) Ymir, eyelashes should not have nerve endings that hurt so much- he catches sight of a young boy.

In appearance, he looks only a few years -decades- younger than Loki. But his dress is Midgard Native, simple and cheap but serviceable to a non-warrior race, and so Loki has to make the mental correction. Whoever he is, he is much, much younger. A babe, really, like all mortals. The boy is staring at him, and it galls the fallen god that he can't read the child's expression or what he's thinking. If he might be a threat. The face and eyes shift through awe, confusion, fear, and a strained determination.

Loki doesn't know what it means, and a hiss escapes him as his leg spasms to allow bones to align and heal a bit. Not quite powder, then, but close.

When Loki opens his eyes again -still undecided on what to do about the dusty, leather jacketed boy watching him- there is a sword pointed at his nose.

Loki would not have expected it. Unlike most of his -former- kind he likes to take walkabouts. It is, on occasion, nice to be somewhere where no one knows your name. With the short lives of midgardians, even if he does cause a scene within a decade or two all will be forgotten, or drift in to myth and drunken recollections. Midgard had always been the perfect retreat.

He'd understood they stopped using swords centuries ago. In his current condition, if the mortal decided to put it to use the godling is positive the strike would be fatal.

And yet, there is no malice in the boy's blue eyes. Only wariness, and though his body is shaking with tiny tremors his hand is steady.

Loki is certain that the boy knows how to wield his weapon as easily as any Asgardian raised; though he lacks the experience of ages to become a true force of nature with it. That fact does not make him any less deadly to the weakened godling. Loki swallows back his cutting words as the boy opens his mouth to speak.

"Okay, look. I don't know who you are. What you are. Or where you came from..." He trails off, muttering about a _buzz_ and why he can't feel it before continuing. "But, ah. You look pretty banged up-" Once again he mutters something along the lines of no shit he fell out of the fucking sky. "And, um, if you promise not to try to cut off my head, I won't try to take yours, and, um, try to get you some help? You look like you're healing so..."

Loki blinks. He blinks long and slow, and while the ache is there his bones are whole, brittle though they may be. Already his magics are pumping energy into healing him, and it takes him a minute to parse the thought. Already. His. Magics. Are. Healing. Him. Midgard has always been something of a desert on the metaphysical plane, with the occasional oasis of energy thrumming through it. It is the reason the realm is so cut off from the other nine realms where magic is a known and quantified factor.

When Loki Looks, he sees the boy in a different Light, and where the swordsman is standing is a figurative geyser of magic. A mobile spring of energy that will never tire, and always replenish itself. The boy is lit from within, pure lightning, flowing through his veins in a way that Loki's brother could only dream of. It is a thing of life, this magic, and his own is sipping at it, syphoning it off, and the feeling of it makes Loki want to roll in the stuff and never, ever leave.

When he comes back to himself the boy is wearing a look of bewilderment as Loki has somehow managed to transport himself from the crater to the boy. He has his arms wrapped around the child, and he is happily nuzzling at the soft skin of the midgardian's neck. The weakness, his magic tells him, is the neck.

And it is such a pretty neck. Loki thinks he would rather throw himself of the bifrost a thousand times -especially if this child and his power are there to catch him every time- rather than risk that pretty head.

The boy is frozen in both in shock and confusion -they are such a delightful mix- but after a moment the sword that had been digging dangerously into his side -it is a sharp blade, a weapon, but he wears armor that would require more force than their current position allows to penetrate- shifts away.

"So, uh, that's a yes?"

Loki can feel the magic beat in time to the midgardian's heart, and he feels _better_. He thinks he will walk with no trouble, soon. What would have taken days is going to take hours. He cards his fingers through the short, dirty blonde hair. Not golden like Thor's. Blond. Unassuming. Loki hisses his agreement.

"Okay. Great. I'm Richie. Richie Ryan." Loki can't tell where the sword went. Richie made a motion as if placing it in a sheath on his back, but his jacket is too short to conceal such a thing and his sword too long. But Loki can't find it. The action was so natural, so smooth, it makes Loki's bruised lips twitch into a smile. A kind of magic? How... practical.

He knows in his gut Thor would disapprove. The oaf has always been one to wear his strengths on the outside. Weapons included. With the way the term _concealed_ is bandied about in Asgard, one would think it wasn't even in the dictionary.

Richie squirms out of his grip, gently takes him by the arm, and guides him over to a paved mountain path and a... motorbike? Richie gets on, straddling it as one would a horse, and Loki follows and wraps his arms around the midgardian's middle. The machine makes a roar like a large animal when turned on, which nicely covers Loki's purr as he rubs his cheek against the boy's back. The magic soaks into him, and Loki can feel himself changing in the smallest ways as they ride. He doesn't know where they're going.

For the moment, he doesn't much care.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on ff.net


End file.
